A
Real Hash For A Change (only 5½ miles!)

Quite
why, at a recent BH3 Committee meeting, LoudonTasteless
asked me to supply a count of the number of Hashers at each event I
really can’t remember. I think it was about twenty minutes into
his rambling circumlocution that my eyes (glazed and sightless after
the first five minutes) finally succumbed to sleep’s coercive
caress by closing and I joined the rest of the gently slumbering
Committee. To save any unnecessary brain activity by Loudon (counting
has never been a strong point) I will supply the numbers for today.
Of course, statistics are never simple are they? Today we have 43
people though ShutupWally turned up so late I may have to discount
him, making 42. Except am I counting only historically regular BH3
people? That’ll be 38 then. Unless I take out irregular
attendees from the historically regular number and total number.
Making 34 and 38. Though should I add the dogs? Making a full total
of 44. Should I count OldDog twice? 45 then? And since ShutupWally
brought a cat shaped like his dog do we count that – 45, 44 or
43? Subtract those irregulars who don’t come in summer (Mother
and Lemming) – 43, 42 or 41 then. Should I count myself since I
am actually doing the count of everyone? Bit metaphysical that one.
I’ll leave it well alone. Don’t know if I should count
Cheating since he never actually runs with us anyway. Oh crikey, I
just realised I left out the two Hares. Sorry Loudon, it’s all
too much. I don’t think you an count on me. If you see what I
mean…

A
line of cars had pulled up in their slots at right angles to the
fence. A car’s length away a row of double parking slots ran
parallel to the fence. The first two sets of slots were taken as
Baldrick drove through the third set and stopped his car in the gap
prior to reversing into the front slot – why, I don’t
know. Neither, I’m sure, did the mischevious Spot who was in
his car directly behind Baldrick and who drove right into the front
slot, effectively trapping Balders in no-man’s land and causing
Foghorn and Hamlet to erupt into guffaws of laughter. Poor Baldrick.
He was only trying to park sensibly. We, meanwhile, were trying to
keep warm. Though the sun shone the wind nipped and pinched at
exposed bits and I shuddered as I saw Cerberus disappearing through
the hedge by an exposed field for a comfort break. Luckily, GM Spex
(bereft this week of her Ukranian headscarf) didn’t take too
long over the Circle and we were On Outing in no time past the
hurriedly changing latecomers – Caboose, Amanda and Tony –
to try and warm up our muscles. B*allsUp had obviously pre-warmed up
since, at the first five-bar gate he performed a Parkour Kong. This
involves jumping an object with the feet brought through between the
hands that are placed on top of the gate (according to my source and
Parkour exponent Motormouth). The last time we saw anyone attempt
this was when Kn*ckerCatcher tried it some time ago, caught a foot on
the top, landed face down in the shiggy and damn nearly got arrested
for causing grievous bodily laughter to the rest of us. P*ssQuick,
Bl*wJob and the rest of the arthritically challenged sensibly went
round the side.

Now this
was the first time StinkingBishop (aka Mark, Grommet’s husband)
had laid a Hash and Hamlet had obviously made the most of his amateur
eagerness. The False trails were horrendously long affairs. One can
imagine the scene in the middle of a cold, windswept field by a Check
during the trail laying. “Righty ho Mark.” Says Hamlet,
busily laying the flour circle with the insouciant manner of the
experienced cognoscenti. “We need a good old False in the
opposite direction to the real trail. You go off to do that and I’ll
carry on into the sheltered… I mean, forest area.” So
off goes Mark. Quarter of a mile out. Quarter of a mile back. Then a
further half a mile to where Hamlet is sitting on a comfy log out of
the biting wind having rolled, smoked and just extinguished a fat
one. He rises to his feet somewhat unsteadily and grins a wide grin
at the gasping Mark. “Wow! This flour is so white.” He
exclaims. “I can run like the free wind.” He continues
with an expansive gesture. “Let’s go!” And he
scuttles off leaving poor Mark to catch up. It carried on in this
vein for some time. Not surprising that the fellow was stuffing
bananas and coffee down his neck before the run in a desperate
attempt to re-energise.

It was
Iceman who got lucky with the Checks early on in the open fields and
we could see him much less clearly than we could hear his yodelling
calls of ‘On On’. Especially when he disappeared into the
first forest – where the yodelling stopped. For some reason
no-one could find the trail and this was not helped when Tony came
back down the real trail telling us it must be a False. This meant
that Spex, Cerberus, BlowJob etc were forced along one of those ¼
mile Falses. Though, of course, this is all good stuff for Spex who
is in serious training for the Reading ½ Marathon. The
confusion and soft ground obviously got to Quack who crashed heavily
into the shiggy in front of Chopstix who blushed coyly at the thought
of a gentleman throwing himself at her feet. Luckily, the next bit
turned out to be a meandering loop through some drier, crunchy-leaved
forest heading towards The Vyne, a National Trust property and a very
fine one at that. Spot, SlowSucker and Premature were amongst the
leaders. As was Glittert*ts, now fully recovered from his
nail-through-the-foot problem of last week.

We hurtled
down a track towards the lake in front of the splendid 16th
Century mansion where Premature and Lemming decided to turn left in
order to view the edifice despite the fact that the trail turned
right. Why just about everyone followed them is unclear though it may
have something to do with Lemming calling ‘On On’. We
backtracked and eventually got to the Regroup where we managed to get
in the way of several walkers out for a quiet stroll and were joined
by Zebedee who was, surprisingly, a tad late – note the use of
irony there. Lemming was hurled into a nearby ditch by CabinBuoy and
Shandyman, emerging like The Monster From The Bog and heaving mud and
wet leaves about with carefree abandon. It was a Long and Short trail
from here and Iceman was so eager to join the Long trail down the
muddy slope that he essayed a little one-footed ski-ing, delighting
us with his impression of a human windmill. It was a pretty long
uphill and down dale (particularly for Glittert*ts who went the wrong
way downhill towards the lake) route and we were pleased that
SlowSucker and Centaur kindly checked out the Falses down a large
hill for us before Shandyman and I hit the right path and enjoyed a ½
mile cruise along a highly uneven track before slanting right into
the forest. Here, of course, Hamlet had directed Mark to lay one of
those unbelievably long Falses and I duly got suckered into doing it.
Mind you, if I hadn’t run deep into the wood I would never have
seen the fine little Muntjack deer that skipped delicately across the
path just a few metres ahead. It almost made up for the long,
shoe-sucking return journey and the desperate attempt to catch up
with Spot, Margaret, Centaur and the rest. Caboose and I finally
trotted in together, he trying to stay awake following a West London
Hash late party the night before.

Only one question. Why
on earth was Flash wearing carpet slippers in the pub after the
Hash?!?Thanks Hares. On On. Hashgate.